Something In Between (in progress)
by Jonquil
Summary: What happens after "In The Company of Wolves"?
1. Plus Ça Change...

# Something In Between 

AUTHOR: Jonquil  
EMAIL: [serpyllum@yahoo.com][1]  
DISTRIBUTION: Just ask.  
RATING: R (strong language, violence, sexual references)  
SPOILERS: Through mid-fourth season; AU after that.  
SUMMARY: What happens after "In The Company of Wolves?"   
FEEDBACK: yes, please.  
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to large corporations, and were created by the brilliant writers for Buffy and Angel.  


DEDICATION: As ever, thanks to my long-suffering betas, Anastasia, Nestra, and Carrie. Most especially to Anastasia, who insisted. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The price I pay for waiting nine months to continue is that I've been thoroughly Jossed. So, this continues where "In The Company of Wolves" ended, in a universe almost but not completely unlike the Jossverse. Willow was kidnapped in spring 2000. The Solstice ball was in June 2000; Willow returned to LA, and eventually Sunnydale, shortly thereafter. Willow retrieved the videotape from her lawyer in spring 2001. Our story begins some time the following autumn... 

## Chapter 1

"Don't forget, it's at 7!" 

Willow laughed. "I'm not the one you need to worry about. See you at the concert, and tell Tara she'd better be on time or else!" She waved at Julie, then bent to unlock her door and went inside. She hung her coat on the hall rack, then walked toward the kitchen. The light on the answering machine was blinking. She hit the button and opened the refrigerator door to scavenge. There was a wide assortment of interesting and/or useful herbs, but no actual food. She shut the door. 

"Wills? Sorry I missed you. Can you come over for dinner Wednesday? Riley picked out this guy he wants you to meet -- no, no, just kidding, we just haven't seen you in forever and we miss you. Call soon. Love." 

Willow frowned. The last time she'd had dinner with Buffy, Buffy had tried to set her up with this "really sweet" girl who reminded Willow of Cordelia without the charm. She really wished her friends would stop trying to manage her love life. When she was ready for another man -- or woman, or furry green thing with two heads -- she'd be able to find one herself. She opened the breadbox and wished she hadn't. Now she knew where the missing afikomen had wound up... 

"Someone at this number has a reserve item available for pickup at Sunnydale public library." Probably the reproduction of Culpeper's Herbal she'd asked for on inter-library loan. Giles would be so pleased. 

"Willow, it's Tara. Can you stop by Julie's and my place after the concert? Julie doesn't want to admit it, but I think she's worried about Organic Chemistry, and I know you aced it last year." 

"This is a message for Ms. Rosenberg. This is Lilah Morgan. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. You can return this call at any time; my number is ...." Willow scrambled for a pencil. She didn't know any Lilahs; the voice sounded businesslike enough. Lilah Morgan, 213 area code, same as Angel's, got the number. Good enough. She glanced at the clock. There was still an hour until the concert, plenty of time to return the call and still grab something to eat. She hit Rewind, then picked up the telephone and dialed. 

"Wolfram and Hart, to whom may I direct your call?" 

"Hi, this is Ms. Rosenberg, I'm returning a call from Ms. Morgan." 

"One moment, please." 

"Ms. Rosenberg? This is Ms. Morgan. How kind of you to return my call promptly! Let me get right down to business. A client of mine has asked me to set up a meeting with you about a consulting opportunity." 

Willow kept her voice calm. "I'm afraid you have the wrong person. I'm a student, Ms. Morgan, and that's a full-time job." 

"My client understands that; this is a limited engagement, probably no more than a weekend. He's concerned about the security of his site, and he's looking for someone who can test it -- a white hat, I believe it's called. You may not realize it, but your name is becoming quite well-known." 

"Really? Wow. Um, which weekend? I could probably manage to fit this in, as long as it isn't during midterms or finals or something like that." 

"My client can be flexible about date, but he'd prefer to meet you as soon as possible to finalize arrangements." 

Willow frowned, caution returning. "Where is your client? If this is a computer problem, why doesn't he just send me E-mail or phone? And how did he get my phone number anyway?" 

"Ms. Rosenberg, this *is* the Internet age. My client found out about you the same way you'd find out about him. His name's Philip Conway; feel free to research him on your own time. He would prefer to meet face-to-face to discuss the problem; as I'm sure you're aware, electronic communications are far too easily intercepted." 

"I suppose so. Where does he want to meet?" _In the daytime. In front of witnesses, if she had anything to say about it._

"He can't easily leave his business. He'd like you to come to him; he'll send his jet to pick you up." 

"I suppose.... pick me up where? And when?" 

"Tomorrow evening, at the local airport." 

That was moving way too fast. "Let me research your client and get back to you. Can I call with an answer tomorrow morning?" 

"Ms. Rosenberg, I'm sure you understand that my client is a very busy man. You're either available or you aren't. Which is it?" 

"I'm afraid I'm not available, then. Good luck to your client." Willow hung up before her courage left her, then sagged against the wall. 

Too weird, too fast. She didn't like people trying to push her into making decisions, and she certainly wasn't going to get on a flight to some unknown place to meet a total stranger. She'd been kidnapped more than enough for one lifetime. 

It was kind of cool, though. She was a White Hat! People knew her name! People who weren't vampires, or Watchers, or paranormal -- ordinary people, whose idea of 'unseen evil' was a really clever computer hacker. Wow. 

Her stomach growled, reminding her of more mundane problems, like supper. She ran back to the hall and grabbed her coat. There was just time to pick up something downtown before she met Julie and Tara at the show. She shoved a hand into the pocket: keys, cross, stake, hex bag, breath mints. Good to go. She walked out the front door, locked it, and set out for the Espresso Pump. 

She was barely three steps from the front door when something hit her hard across the back of the head. 

**** 

When Willow regained consciousness, she was lying on the floor of a small windowless room. Concrete floor, concrete-block walls painted institutional perky blue, recessed fluorescent light fixture, one metal door without any visible knob. Her head hurt. Again. She checked her coat pockets; they were empty. 

_Once, just once, I'd like to run into a stupid kidnapper. Non-vampire would be nice, too. Wait a minute. What I'd really like is to get through a calendar year without getting kidnapped. _

Propping her back against the wall, she sat up. As usual on such occasions, her head hurt and she felt like throwing up. She scanned the room again. It remained empty and characterless. No weapons, no clues, nothing to do while she waited for the kidnapper to show up and announce his evil plan. If she got lucky and got a kidnapper who was feeling chatty. She sighed, leaned her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, and searched her memory for the words that would get her home safely. She had fallen into a light trance -- or possibly a doze -- when she heard the door opening behind her. 

She screwed her eyes shut to avoid making contact and launched into her prepared speech. 

"Spike? This isn't funny. I said "No", and I meant it." 

A voice she had hoped never to hear again purred, "You appear to be operating under a misconception, mademoiselle. I am not Spike." 

Willow's eyes flew open. She could see the speaker's face clearly, a face she remembered all too well from Montreal. It belonged to François. 

[][2]

   [1]: mailto:serpyllum@yahoo.com
   [2]: http://www.geocities.com/serpyllum/



	2. Old Friends

## Chapter 2

Without thinking, Willow scrambled to her feet. Pointless, when a vampire stood between her and the only exit. 

"Quite right, my dear. You have nowhere to run." Slowly, casually, François began to stroll toward her. He didn't bother shutting the door behind him. 

Willow froze. All her preparations had assumed an attack from one of two quarters: somebody trying to annoy the Slayer through her, although word seemed to have gotten around that this was a really bad move, or Spike, whose motives, alas, were strictly personal. She shivered. 

"Cold, mademoiselle?" François' face was impassive. She let the silence drag on. Whoever spoke first, lost -- she remembered that much. In two steps, before she could react, François closed the distance between them and a hard slap rocked her bruised head back against the wall. Blood roared in her ears. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting. 

"You will speak when spoken to. Not before, but certainly afterward." 

Willow swallowed twice, then spoke in a voice that she hoped didn't quaver. "No, I'm not particularly cold, thank you." She shut her mouth before she could blurt out the wrong thing. Head swimming, she scrabbled through last year's lessons from Spike. Speak when spoken to, check, be very polite, check, don't be cocky, check, head down.... oops! She hastily dropped her eyes to the floor and awaited further instructions. 

"Did you know that your lips move when you're thinking? Typical human foible." His lips twisted on 'human', as if he were tasting something disagreeable. Then, without warning, he grabbed the neck of her sweater, ripped it down the sternum, and yanked the halves away from her chest. Instinctively, Willow recoiled, only to be brought up short by the wall at her back. 

François' next move wasn't what she'd expected. He released the sweater shreds as if they were doused in holy water, stepped back from her, and spat, "So, you have broken faith, abandoned your oath. I should have expected no better." 

There was no good response to this. "No, sir" would be admitting to an unknown crime; "What oath?" would certainly earn her another slap, and silence had proven to be a very bad idea. 

"I'm not sure I understand, sir." 

Another hard blow, ricocheting her injured head back against the wall. Willow slid down to the floor and succumbed to nausea. When she finished retching, she dimly realized that François had been speaking the whole time she was occupied. 

"...to be removed only at your death. You breathe. Either your master tired of you, or you betrayed him. Which?" 

Willow gulped; out of old habit, her right hand flew to her naked throat. The necklace. She had to answer quickly. She certainly hadn't betrayed Spike, she had no idea if he'd tired of her, and she suspected "Our deal was for a year" would neither be understood or believed. She raised her left hand and pushed her sweater down her arm, displaying the thin black chain she kept wrapped around her wrist. "N-neither... sir?" 

Iron hands grasped her wrist and twisted; she gasped in pain as the chain bit into the flesh. "Explain yourself. If you broke oath, your life is forfeit. If he discarded you...." The grip tightened. 

Willow gasped, "No. That's not what happened -- either one. Really. He said we couldn't escape Montreal together, and he put me on a plane home. I haven't heard from him since. I don't know what his plans were. I kept the necklace for him." Together with a sizable piece of her mind that she'd been storing up for months, but she didn't think François would appreciate that part of the story. 

Her wrist was twisted again; apparently François was inspecting the necklace. Eventually he released his grip. She cradled the injured hand against her stomach, contemplating the vampire's highly-polished shoes. Wing-tips. Black. 

"You may yet retain some utility." His voice remained detached, as if he were contemplating a grubby week-old newspaper, deciding whether it could still be put to use under the cat box. "Time will tell." A knife flashed next to her eyes; Willow flinched away, banging her head once more. While she fought to remain conscious, François turned on his heel and left. The door slid shut behind him. 

Willow put her right hand up to her head to check the wound. It must have been a very, very sharp knife; she hadn't felt a thing. After a few pats, she dropped the hand before her eyes, puzzled. It was dry. François hadn't touched her skin. Willow felt around again. Her bangs felt weird. She looked around for her mirror, but her backpack was (of course) not there. She put both hands up, confirming that there was a jagged gap in her bangs, next to her left temple. 

He stole a lock of my hair. This is so not good. I can think of six bad spells off the top of my head that start with a lock of hair. But that doesn't make any sense. He's got me. He could just kill me. Why would he bother with a curse? And why does he care what my relationship is to Spike? 

I don't know what it is myself. "Oh, he's planning on killing me, or I thought he was, but he hasn't come around to do it, so I'm really hoping he's found some nice vampire and settled down to raise.... well, that bit doesn't really work, but settled down without me." 

This isn't fair. I waited a year and a half before I had that necklace cut off. I was going on with my life. I only kept the stupid thing because I thought Spike might want it back. 

If I hadn't kept it, I think I'd be dead now. 

This is all Spike's fault. 

###### 

The phone rang, followed shortly by the buzz of the intercom. Angel groaned. "Cordy, can you handle it yourself for once?" 

Her voice sounded strained. "Angel, this one's for you. It's Giles." 

He wouldn't call unless.... Angel grabbed the receiver. "Buffy?" 

"No, Angel, Buffy's in fine health. Thriving. But nobody's seen Willow for three days. Tara had a spare key to her apartment, and she let us in. There are no signs of a struggle, no suitcases packed. She missed a concert and all her classes, and it isn't like her to vanish without a word." 

_That bastard Spike. _ He heard an ominous creak from the handset and hastily relaxed his grip. "Has Willy--" 

"Thank you, that had already occurred to us. Nobody in Sunnydale -- nobody, alive or otherwise -- has seen Willow since Friday. She's vanished. If somebody had kidnapped her, we'd expect a ransom note by now." 

"I'll be there..." Angel's voice trailed down as he realized it was still daytime. 

Giles's voice grew tighter. "We don't want your assistance. We want information. The only clue we found in the apartment was a message from Los Angeles on her answering machine. Do you know anything about a Wolfram and Hart?" 

"Damn!" 

"That's not information." Giles's tone was brittle. 

_He must be desperate. Nothing less would have made him ask anything from me. _ "Wolfram and Hart are behind three-quarters of the evil done in this city, and that includes the non-supernatural. We're at war. But I wouldn't expect them to grab Willow to hurt me; I barely knew her in Sunnydale, and I don't think we've spoken twice since I left." _Once. Not twice. _

"Will you kindly focus on the problem? What would Wolfram and Hart do with Willow, and where would they plan to do it?" 

"I don't know. But I'll find out. And pass it on." 

"You'd better. This isn't your problem, Angel, it's ours. " 

He hung up. "Not in my city it's not." 

#### 

"Hey, Fred, the usual." 

Fred didn't meet Spike's eyes. _Yes, it's good to be bad!_ Fred bent under the counter, retrieved a carton of Marlboros, and threw it to Spike. 

"Ta. See you again." He left, whistling, and ripped the carton open. 

A cream-coloured envelope fell out. 

Spike jumped back. _Somehow, I don't think Philip Morris got the Crackerjack confused with the coffin nails. What the Hell?_

He waited a minute, drawing curious looks from passers-by, then reached out a boot toe and prodded the envelope. It didn't explode, fizz, or turn green. He scanned the area for threats, then bent to pick it up. 

_Fred is not going to see another sunrise. I don't appreciate jokes unless they're mine. And smokes are not a laughing matter._ He slit the envelope with a fingernail, upended it, then shook it over the ground, away from his body. 

A lock of red hair drifted slowly to the pavement. 

[][1]

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/serpyllum/



	3. Crosstalk

Something In Between Chapter 3 

The room stank of vomit. There were far worse things it could smell of. And would, if she had to stay there for many more hours. Or days. 

For the hundredth time, Willow looked around the bland blue room. As always, she found nothing there. Nothing to distract the eye, nothing she could put to use, nothing she could build a plan on. 

She forced the welling panic down. _ Stop that. You can't afford it. Focus on what you can do, not what you can't. _ She had expected this situation, or one like it. She had made preparations, although they had been meant for a different threat. But some of her plans could still be put into effect. Must be, ready or not; François might reappear at any moment. 

She shivered. She had to pull the trigger now, while she had the time and the strength. _ And the heartbeat. _

Willow curled into a ball, rested her head on her folded arms, began taking slow, deep breaths, and withdrew into her own mind. She reached for the white, silent retreat within herself; once there, she turned to a wall of carved walnut cabinets. 

She opened one small drawer, laid away the distant whine of the fluorescent lights, and slid the drawer tightly shut. One by one, she locked away her other external senses: the cold concrete under her knees, the sour scent and taste of vomit, the dark red shadows behind her eyelids. Next she laid aside her fear, her anger, and her pain. 

Finally all that remained was her will and her power. She wrapped them around her, then turned her back to the cabinets, looking out into the whiteness. 

Within her mind, Willow whispered "E luce in tenebris. Voco. Clamo. Arcesso." She couldn't hear herself, of course. Her thoughts seemed to rise up through syrup, slow and deliberate as the retreat of glaciers or the birth of continents. Painstakingly, she envisioned a sheet of white paper before her. She began to inscribe words on the paper, shaping each black letter in her head, holding the entire image complete. 

"Angel. This is Willow. The Montreal vampires are holding me prisoner. I don't know where. Probably a modern building. I need your help." 

She paused to reread the letter. Pathetic. But she had nothing better to add, none of those useful details like "I smell burning rubber" or "I hear train whistles twice a day" that would have looked so good in a murder mystery. 

Oh. Actually, there was one very important detail she'd left out. She began adding words at the bottom of the image. 

"This has something to do with Spike and the necklace." 

She folded the mental letter into thirds and wrote Angel's name on the outside. Then she whispered "Ite," and the letter vanished. 

So much for the easy part. She steadied herself again, then, still wrapped in her own will, spoke one word, "Fiat". This time, she saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. Which might have been her own doing, or might have meant that nothing had happened. Either way, she'd done what she could. 

Reluctantly, she turned back to the cabinets and began to reclaim her senses and emotions. She was sorely tempted to leave the fear where it was, but Giles had warned her often enough about the risks of using magic to escape from pain. She unlocked the last drawer, accepted the fear, then uncurled herself and opened her eyes. 

Nothing external had changed; she was still alone in an empty room with no books. Her head was pounding. She was exhausted, cold, hungry, and frightened. 

A familiar voice echoed in her memory. "Fear attracts predators." 

Willow took a long, shuddering breath, leaned back against the wall, and reclosed her eyes. 

_ Lavandula angustifolia, true lavender: antiseptic, calming, cloaks unpleasant smells. Lavandula stoechas, French or Spanish lavender: useless for magical purposes, looks pretty in a pot. Solanum dulcamara, woody nightshade: can be toxic. Do not confuse with Atropa belladonna. Atropa belladonna, deadly nightshade: narcotic, sedative, diuretic, extremely poisonous. Causes pupils to dilate; also used to cause hallucinations and death. An ingredient in traditional "flying ointment." ... _

###### 

Spike pressed Fred's skull against the counter, nearly crushing bone. "That wasn't the answer I was hoping for." He pulled back on the head, banged it down again, and pressed a fraction harder. "Try again?" 

Fred gasped, "Nobody told me nothing. They just said to give you the box when you came in." 

Spike moved his hand to Fred's throat, then squeezed. "What 'they' is this, then? And why didn't it occur to you to tell me I'd had visitors?" 

Fred gurgled. The gurgles grew more desperate. Reluctantly, Spike relaxed his grip. 

"I don't know. I never saw them before!" 

Spike reached out with his free hand and yanked Fred's thumb out of its socket. 

Fred screamed, "I don't know anything! Rich... Suits... Scary..." 

Spike purred, "And you took their orders because...?" 

"They were going to kill me!" 

Spike chose another finger, then broke it. "So am I. " 

####### 

Lindsey stalked off to his car. It had been another tedious evening of meetings. So tedious that even the ever-present threat of "up or out" had barely kept him alert, even knowing that Wolfram & Hart's definition of "out" did not involve severance pay. Sometimes death sounded more attractive than a three-hour discussion of the use of alternate realities to extend the billable day. He reached into his pocket for his keys, only to be brought up short by an arm around his throat. 

_ Again. _ He gasped, "Your point?" 

"What have you done with Ms. Rosenberg?" The voice, as always, was arctic. 

"I don't know who you're talking about." 

He was spun, then smashed face-first into the cement garage wall. "Try again. There was a message from your firm on her answering machine." 

Lindsey shrugged as best he could. "It's a big firm. We have a lot of clients. She's not one of mine." 

Another smash, and suddenly his left arm was twisted behind his back, his remaining hand in an icy grasp, thumb bent impossibly far back. "Last chance, Lindsey. Unless you're ready for matching prostheses." 

He racked his brains for some scrap of information he could safely offer. Before he could speak, his hand was released, and he heard a thump behind him. He spun around to see the vampire on his knees, hands over his eyes. 

_ Oh, for a stake. Even if it would have ruined the line of the jacket. _ The prudent move would have been to seek the safety of the car. He'd never been terribly prudent. "Soul problems?" 

Angel was back on his feet before the last syllable. There was a furrow in that Neanderthal forehead. "You wouldn't know, would you? This once, you may be as ignorant -- I won't say innocent -- as you claim." He turned his back on Lindsey and strode away. 

Lindsey watched Angel's coat swirling out of sight. _ Always the dramatic exit. _ When he was sure the vampire was really gone, he pulled out his cellphone. _ So, our tarnished knight takes more than passing interest in the Rosenberg girl? Not a case for clumsy hands. _ He pressed speed dial. 

"Lilah. Still in the office, I see. I'm so glad you're making an effort to improve your productivity, because Holland was wondering why you weren't making progress on the Meyers case. 

"Oh, the Rosenberg case? I'm sure the partners will be thrilled to hear you're putting blue-sky whims ahead of immediate needs. I do hope I'm present when you tell them that." 

Click. 

He smiled, then punched in another number. 

"Ms. Jenkins? Let me know when Ms. Morgan leaves the dead files area. Thanks so much. No, no, really, I was glad to help with your brother's problem. You're part of the Wolfram & Hart family now." 

**Notes:**

Willow's spell translates to "Out of light into darkness. I call. I cry out. I summon." "Ite" is "Go"; "Fiat" is "Let it be done." 

[Jonquil][1]

   [1]: mailto:serpyllum@yahoo.com



	4. Investigation

Something In Between Chapter 4 

Spike watched regretfully as the "Welcome To Sunnydale" sign dwindled unscathed in the rear-view mirror. This was supposed to be a stealth visit; in, out, nobody the wiser. No Slayer, no Watcher, no vapid blonde vampires, please whatever. He'd even abandoned his ride; this trip, he pigged it in a bland, anonymous Taurus, liberated from a bored 7/11 clerk whose boredom had become permanent. 

He nosed into a "Registrar Only" parking space, cut the motor, and hopped out. First things first. The lock of hair had smelled like the witch, right enough, but it wasn't proof positive. Spike stomped down a "Do Not Walk On Grass" sign and continued to the back door. 

Ah, dear trustful Sunnydale. The so-called lock wouldn't slow Harmony down. A kick was as good as a skeleton key. Easier to keep track of, too. Spike wondered idly why the locals remained so oblivious... perhaps the smart ones left town. The third cubicle held pay dirt, its occupant too lazy to log off at the end of the day. He slid in behind the monitor and began searching. 

> "ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND. 

Had Miss Bookaholic of 1999 dropped out? Not bloody likely. He slammed the side of the monitor. 

> "ROSENBURG, WILLOW" NOT FOUND. 

_Oh. Sod. _ Spike hastily corrected his error. 

> ROSENBERG, WILLOW, 2003, CHEMISTRY/HISTORY, PRESIDENTIAL SCHOLAR 

_That's my girl. _ Spike scanned the screen, then clicked HOUSING. 

> F1999, S2000, 214 STEVENSON, DOUBLE, SUMMERS, BUFFY  
F2000, S2001, 123 STEVENSON, SINGLE 

_Pining, was she? _

> F2001, OFF-CAMPUS 

Fuck. Bloody useless. He hit the screen again. It collapsed with a satisfying screech... and shards of glass everywhere. Ouch. 

Thirty minutes later, when he'd picked most of the splinters out of his hands, Spike began searching for another logged-on computer. _Bloody technology. _ Eventually he remembered the telephone book. 

> ROSENBERG, W. 256 CHANCELLOR ST, APT. 2 

Score! And not two blocks from where he stood. _Still a pedestrian, Red? _ He abandoned the car and strode off to investigate. 

Apartment 2's door was blocked by yellow "Police Line - Do Not Cross" tape. Spike's blood couldn't run any colder, but it tried. _Someone _else_ killed her. Someone is going to die. For weeks. _

###### 

Willow was startled from her doze by the sound of the door sliding open. She scrambled hastily to her feet and dropped her gaze to the floor. _ Now what? _

"Pfaugh, what a stench. Humans. Deal with her." François again. 

Willow tensed. Apparently the cavalry wouldn't be coming; time for the death-or-glory spells. _I wish I'd had time to work the bugs out of that teleport...._ She wove her fingers desperately, but, as she'd expected, she was interrupted. By a punch to the gut, unfortunately. She slumped to the floor, forcing her eyes to remain downcast, and struggled for breath. 

"Don't." She didn't recognize the voice. _Male, probable vampire. _ She didn't recognize the shoes, either, although she very much doubted they'd been fashionable this century. Black, glittering jeweled buckles, red high heels. _I've been kidnapped by Dr. Frank N. Furter? _

The unknown demanded, "Where is the sigil?" 

_Can't place the accent. _ Willow pushed her sweater up her arm to display the necklace. 

François replied, "Put it where it belongs, and ensure that it stays there." 

Willow obediently began to work the clasp, only to have her hand slapped away. _Oh. Not talking to me. _

The unknown ordered, "Stand up and turn around." She swiveled to face the wall. Cold hands _Vampire, check _ removed the necklace from her wrist. She heard small metallic noises behind her, and shivered. She hated blindly waiting for ... whatever ... to happen. The hands entered her field of view, then the necklace was around her throat again, and there was fiddling at the nape of her neck. _Oh, come on, the clasp isn't that complicated. _ There was another mysterious snap. Then the steps retreated. 

_I can't take much more of this. I need information. _ She risked a question. "What's going on?" For once, nobody hit her. 

François replied, "Fortunately for you, you retain some value." 

As what? Willow shuddered. 

His voice mocked, "Oh, not in my eyes. We have established that you remain in play. Give thanks, if you pray." Disdain rolled off the last word. 

_In play? What's the game, and how did I wind up a pawn rather than a player? _ The question answered itself. Spike had dragged her off to Montreal, and she'd been reacting, one way and another, ever since. In François' eyes, she was Spike's tool, not Willow Rosenberg, not herself important. _I swear, I am going to make him pay for that, if it's the last thing I do. _ She refused to clarify which "him" she meant. Or to contemplate how close "the last thing she did" might be. 

François spoke again; her attention snapped back to his voice. "Get her cleaned. We leave immediately." 

####### 

Snarling, Spike ripped aside the police tape, kicked open the door, strode in ... and found himself stretched flat against the empty air. 

_She's alive. _

He couldn't get in. That meant she wasn't dead. It also meant he couldn't search for the clues he needed ... assuming the police hadn't already trampled them. He punched a fist into the barrier. As usual, this was utterly useless, but, also as usual, it felt good. 

_There's more than one way to break a neck. _ Spike strode around to the back of the building. As he'd hoped, each apartment had the usual glass sliding door, opening on the usual tiny patio. Spike walked up to the door that should be hers and pressed his face against the glass. 

He saw chaos. Furniture had been pushed helter-skelter. He didn't spot any blood, but every flat surface was covered with fingerprint powder. Clothes spilled out of the half-open closet door and the chest of drawers. She'd lived here, all right. He recognized the psychedelic-puke color scheme and the ongoing bagginess. _Thought I'd broken her of that. _

That settled it. This was Willow's place, she'd vanished, and the do-gooders were worried enough to drag the police into the problem. _The Slayer would not have called the rozzers for anything she fancied she could handle herself. Which rules out the usual suspects. _

He stepped back and scanned the apartment walls. There was a tiny high frosted window to one side of the patio. _Bathroom. _ He punched the window; his fist rebounded, but the window shattered nonetheless. He sniffed. The scent trail was jumbled with strangers and Slayer, but he could still pick out fading traces of Willow. He pulled the cream envelope from his inside breast pocket and lifted it to his nose. Perfect match. 

_So, who grabbed her, why did they send her hair to me rather than the Slayer, and what do they want? _ He looked down at the envelope. Suddenly he realized where he'd seen its mate. _Fuck. _

His epiphany was interrupted by an all-too-familiar voice from the front room. "Someone's been here. Back me up." 

The Slayer. So much for stealth. He turned on his heel and fled. 

####### 

Whack! The heavy bag rocked back, and Angel punched it again. 

The situation could hardly get uglier. Thwap! Another Spike incident would have been trivial by comparison: follow the trail the boy could no more avoid leaving than he could control his temper, end his presumption once and for all, restore the girl to her grateful (hah!) friends, return home and contemplate how he'd let the situation get so far out of control. 

Well, he was certainly going to have time for the last part of that plan. Rushing into this situation half-cocked would guarantee Willow's death, and very possibly his own as well. He could only hope that Spike's might be thrown in as a bonus. 

He'd been afraid of this. Spike (and Willow) had blithely assumed that they'd left the mess behind them in Montreal. Naturally. Humiliate a 400-year-old vampire in front of the community he rules, skip town, and it's all history. He snorted and threw another flurry of punches. Right. Because the Old Ones are so fond of moving on and living in the present. 

The puzzle was how to extricate Willow, while leaving Spike to face the consequences of his idiocy. In the Old Ones' eyes, Willow was just as much a symbol of defiance as Spike; to leave her unpunished would 'encourager les autres'. Her very existence was an insult, and an invitation to rebellion. 

Whack! One thing was clear. The public defiance had occurred in Montreal; that was where the Old Ones would expect reparations. He picked up the phone. "When's the next evening flight to Dorval?" 

######## 

After a couple of hasty sewer detours, Spike shook off the Slayer. When he was sure the trail was cold, he risked a return to the administration building. Nobody had yet discovered his intrusion (thank you, oblivious Sunnydale!), so he returned to the Taurus. 

There was another cream envelope on the dashboard. 

[Jonquil][1]

   [1]: mailto:serpyllum@yahoo.com



	5. Convergence

Something In Between c.5 Something In Between c.5 Chapter 5 

**Note:** Previous installments at [ http://www.geocities.com/serpyllum/][1]. 

Spike stared at the car, and at the envelope lying on the dashboard.

Bloody fucking hell.

He despised symbolic messages. Rip his head off, fine, blow up his crypt, no problem, but spare him the mindfucks. He'd been worked over by experts. These berks weren't in the running. 

What was it with the over-200 set, anyway? Couldn't just kill the Slayer, no, had to draw menacing sketches, leave mysterious boxes of flowers, torture some goldfish, then destroy the world as an encore. And the Montreal trads couldn't kill him, or bomb the car, or sprinkle holy water in his lair. Oh, no. Not subtle enough. Not stylish enough. Just make it clear that he was being watched, that they had plans, and he wasn't going to know anything until they were good and ready to share.

He drove a fist into the side of the car. It felt good. Violence made sense. Violence was the answer to any problem he could think of, including those annoying twelve-letter cryptic crossword clues. He turned his back and walked away. Screw them. He wasn't dancing to their tune. Sodding car could rot. Never liked bloody Tauruses anyway.

This called for bourbon. Or tequila. Or anything over 80 proof. 

######

"Angel, what do you think you're doing?"

Angel slammed his suitcase shut and turned away from the bed. Keeping his voice level, he replied, "I'm leaving town for a few days. It's urgent."

"Who has the visions here, you or me? *I* haven't seen a thing."

"This is personal, Cordy".

"Oh, no, you don't. Every time you get personal it turns out really, really badly. Remember--"

"Drop it. Just don't." He fought to suppress a snarl.

She stepped toward him, eyes pleading. "Angel. Honest to God, remember the last time you didn't listen, remember what happened next. Vengeance doesn't work for you."

"Why do you always assume... I'm not even going to start this. This isn't vengeance _ I hope_, it's a rescue. You haven't had a vision, fine. Sometimes the Powers That Be aren't involved. I don't need your help, I don't need my soul saved, I just need you to GET OUT OF THE WAY so I can catch my plane!"

She didn't back off. "Promise you aren't going all no-soul again?"

Snort. "Would a promise do you any good if I were?"

Cordy folded her arms, lifted her chin, and stood her ground. "Angel. Promise me this isn't more Wolfram & Hart nonsense, or you'll have to hurt me to get out the door."

Angel sighed. He was going to have to give her part of the truth if he wanted to get out of there. "I doubt this has anything to do with our favorite law firm. An old ... acquaintance ... is in trouble. I'll be back as soon as I can. If you get any visions, call Gunn and Wesley; you've handled them without me in the past. I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't urgent."

She stepped aside. "Please be telling the truth. And please come back in one piece." 

He gave her half a smile. "That's the plan. Urns don't suit me."

#########

After François and Mr. High Heels left the room, another vampire entered. This one was scruffy, the sort Buffy staked by the dozen any night in Sunnydale. He never dropped the demon face; Willow suspected he couldn't. The minion escorted Willow to a dingy bathroom, where she was required to shower and use the facilities under his cold gaze. She blushed. He didn't. 

When she got out of the shower, her own clothes were gone, replaced by a gray pile on the floor. It proved to be too-large sweats, the shirt with a telltale rust-brown stain. There was no towel. She dressed without bothering to protest. At least these clothes didn't smell of vomit. Unsurprisingly, there was no mirror over the sink. The vampires hadn't provided a comb, so she did her best to tidy her wet hair with her fingers. Before she had finished, the minion grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall. Not back to her cell, as she'd expected, but up a flight of stairs. 

"But I'm still barefoot!" Willow protested. The vampire tightened his grip to the point of pain. "Speak when spoken to." Then he increased his pace, Willow stumbling to keep up with him. 

She was dragged into an featureless room. The only thing in it was a black (naturally) footlocker, lid open. "In." 

"What?"

The vampire didn't bother to reply. Instead he twisted her arm behind her back, forcing her down and forward. Willow's shins banged against the edge of the footlocker; she cried out and doubled up in pain. Before she knew it, she was crammed uncomfortably into the trunk, knees to chest. The vampire slammed the lid down. She heard clicks. Then the world lurched. Apparently she was being carried somewhere. 

Her legs hurt. Her head hurt. It was dark. She was starving. She was soggy. She tried desperately to find something cheerful to think about.

_ I'm not dead yet._

########

Buffy finished her report to Giles. "There was nobody in the apartment, nothing had been touched. It looked just the way the police left it, except that the door was kicked down and the bathroom window was broken." 

Giles's eyebrow went up. "Where was the broken glass?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "In the bathroom window, Giles. I already told you that." 

He sighed. "Inside the room or outside it?"

"I don't know... inside, I think. The glass crunched under my feet."

"Buffy, think. Nobody had entered. The glass was broken from the outside. So was the door you entered through. If the apartment was empty, that means somebody tried to get in and failed."

"Vampire?" She tensed.

"Who else would break down the door without entering?"

"Then Willow's alive!" Buffy sagged with relief. "God, Giles, she's not dead. I was starting to think..." 

"Not only is she alive, but someone or something is looking for her in Sunnydale. Our suspects must be local after all." 

Buffy threw herself into Giles's arms. "She's alive, Giles! And she's here! Which means I can kick some vampire ass and find her!" 

Giles returned her hug for a moment, then withdrew. He didn't seem to share Buffy's elation. "You've already tried that, Buffy. Nobody's talking. And the indications are... disturbing. Whoever has her knows she's alive. Which means they would know better than to send a vampire to enter her apartment. Therefore more than one faction is involved. I very much fear she's the object of some sort of power struggle. She has something that someone wants." 

Buffy looked at him grimly. "Or _is_ something."

"It seems all too probable. If they were holding her hostage to influence you, they'd have contacted you by now. Somebody wants her for her own sake. But not for her benefit." He took off his glasses, searching for words. "There are ...uses... for a witch's blood." 

"Oh, God."

######

Spike staggered back to the car. He needed someplace dark for the daylight hours. If he moved the wretched suburbmobile away from prying eyes, he could crash in it for the day, then get out of town come nightfall. He climbed in, raced the engine, and sped out of the parking lot. There was a railway overpass on a back road north of town. That should do for now. He accelerated hard, and the cream envelope fell into his lap. He snarled, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the floor well. 

Long ago, there had been a factory a little way out of town, set on a railroad spur. Whatever it built had gone out of fashion years ago. Since then, it had been abandoned to the drunks, the bums, and the randy teenagers. Every now and again, vampires had attempted to lair in it, but had always abandoned it for more populous hunting grounds. He pulled the car under the overpass and cut the engine. The road should be undisturbed until nighttime. 

He lifted the Jim Beam to his lips. Nobody told him what to do. He danced to no one's tune. He was a free agent, a lone wolf, the master of his own destiny. 

########

Willow struggled to control her stomach as the footlocker lurched from side to side. After too long, she felt a hard jolt, then heard a metal slam and the roar of an engine. Apparently, she'd been loaded into a vehicle. In the trunk, judging by the smell of exhaust. _ Death by carbon monoxide? Great. Doesn't sound very vampiry somehow... Stop that. François said I still had some utility. That means he doesn't want me dead. _

_ Yet._

_ I hate the dark. I hate small spaces. At least Spike let me have light and air... Stop that. He didn't do you any favors. He kidnapped you. He wasn't your friend. _

A lifetime later, the vehicle stopped. Another slam, another hideous lurch, and she was jolting through the air again. She smelled a nasty chemical tang. After a few moments, she identified it. Kerosene. _ They're setting me on fire? Stop that. They're taking me camping?_ She giggled hysterically, and was rebuked by a slam on the side of the trunk. 

Suddenly the trunk fell to the ground, knocking the air from Willow's lungs. As she gasped for breath, she heard a voice. "Load this in the passenger compartment." 

_ Oh. An airport._

"Looks like cargo to me, boss, and there's a big hold."

"Shut your mouth. The passenger bay."

The trunk lurched again, then tilted and jolted; Willow presumed she was being carried up a flight of stairs. After a few moments of argument, the invisible carriers stood the trunk on end, dropping her in a heap at the bottom. Head side up, fortunately. 

Some time later, there was a soft murmur of voices. She thought she could pick François out, but the conversation was in French and moved too fast for her to decipher. Then there was a whine of engines and the trunk tilted heavily forward, landing at an angle. She supposed it must have collided with a seat. 

_ I think I'm headed back to Montreal. FedEx class. _

########

When Spike woke, head pounding, the first thing he saw was the damned cream envelope. He turned away, wincing, and grabbed the bottle of Beam from the seat. It was empty. 

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, no part of the situation had improved in any way. He had a hangover. He was trapped. And he was being played. He clenched his teeth. There was no use putting it off any further. As he'd known he eventually must, he retrieved the crumpled envelope, flattened it, ripped it open, and yanked out the single sheet of paper, inscribed in the flowing 18th-century hand he had grown to hate. 

It read:

The Master of Montreal  
Commands your presence  
Solstice  
Ten o'clock  
Tenebrae  


At the bottom was written, "Fail not of your presence. The human's fate hangs on your obedience. " 

[Jonquil][2]  
[A Host of Furious Fancies][1]  
Last modified: Tue Jun 12 11:46:23 Eastern Daylight Time 2001 

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/serpyllum/
   [2]: mailto:serpyllum@yahoo.com



End file.
